


Sorry, you got the wrong number

by Links



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Clubbing, Humor, M/M, Rimming, Sherlock Speaks French, Sherlock is no blushing virgin, Texting, neither is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: What if a message sent to the wrong person might turn out to be what they just need?My take on the trope "Texting the wrong person".Now complete!





	1. Chapter 1

_9 th May_

 

He has just finished typing “Nothing ever happens to me” – the only sentence he could think of and wasn’t it a depressing thought? – when his mobile chimed. John frowned. He wasn’t yet quite used to Harry’s gift – or hand-me-down, more likely.

After fumbling with the too many options of the phone – hello again, depressing thought – he finally understood what has set off the alarm.

_1 New Message._

His heart rate increased and he rolled his eyes straight away. Somebody sends him a text and there he was, behaving like a giddy schoolboy with a crush! If Harry could see him right now, she would have laughed her head off – as always, the epitome of tact.

Calling himself a bloody moron, John opened the message.

 

[Must have access to the body. Text me as soon as you are given the go-ahead. SH]

 

“What the fuck?” he mumbled, frowning.

 

He was re-reading the text when the mobile chimed again.

Another message – and from the same person, it seemed.

 

[Forbid you expressly to inform Mycroft of this. SH]

 

Whoever this SH was, he or she didn’t sound like someone John would be keen to communicate with. He sighed. Typical of his rotten luck to receive a message from an unknown party, only to discover that it was some nutter writing about a corpse. Of course, it couldn’t be a nice, thirtyish woman – or man – looking for a stable, healthy relationship…

“Dream on, Watson!”

 

The phone chimed again.

 

“Oh for the love of…”

 

[I’M WAITING. SH]

 

Despite his annoyance, John couldn’t stop himself from snorting. Nutty AND impatient. This SH was strongly reminding him of bratty new recruits, when they have just arrived in the barracks, excitement and thirst for action boiling up in their veins until they were sent on the field. A familiar sadness welled up within him, but John managed to chase it off. He wasn’t old enough to turn into a sentimental codger, after all.

 

He laboriously typed [ **Sorry, you got the wrong number** ] before sending it to the stranger.

There, all done. Time to turn back to his blog – not that he was very inspired, but Ella has said to…

 

New chime.

 

[Forward my messages to 7880 804545. SH]

 

[Please. SH]

 

John incredulously stared at his screen before answering straight away.

 

[ **What do you take me for? Find yourself a secretary**!]

 

That would teach him to be nice to bloody weirdos, he thinks. “What a cheek!” he muttered to the empty room. He has barely put the phone down that it gave out a flurry of sounds.

 

[You must be warned you are currently hindering a police investigation. SH]

 

[It’s in your own interest to act as I said. SH]

 

[Forward the messages. SH]

 

[And it would be nice of you to apologise. Being impolite to perfect strangers is generally frowned upon if you weren't aware of that fact. SH]

 

Reading this rendered John motionless, mouth agape with incredulity.

This… This couldn’t be real. It was a joke, surely.

He was tempted to phone Harry – who else could have fooled him so easily? – before remembering she attended a conference in Edinburgh this weekend. He hesitated. Besides, he thought, his sister has always favoured the direct approach, whether she was negotiating with a client or looking for someone to get laid. If she was indeed pulling his leg, passing herself off as this “SH”, she would already have revealed herself.

No, it couldn’t be her.

 

Which only left him with the fact that his nutter was indeed a true person.

What a nightmare he – or she, although John was betting on a man – must be.

 

He was still debating whether to switch off the phone or to reply with a heartfelt “FUCK OFF” when a new message appeared on the screen.

 

[You do realise you have made me waste my time? I was obliged to phone Lestrade. And you still haven’t apologised. Therefore I expect an appropriate compensation in the immediate future. Consider yourself warned. SH]

 

He might be a nutter, but John had to admit this guy had balls. Appropriate compensation, indeed. He gave a snort of laughter while typing

[ **Never in a million years.]**

 

The answer came immediately – two words which made John’s stomach thrill despite himself.

 

[Challenge accepted. SH]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't really leave this alone, could I? :)

In spite of the last message – “Challenge accepted” – John has thought he would never hear again of SH.

Obviously, he has been wrong.

So _very_ wrong it was almost laughable.

[Had a row with a chip-and-pin machine. Ruddy nuisances, aren’t they? SH]

That one made John smile, unlike the one received the day before – [I know everyone around me is an idiot, but Anderson really takes the cake! SH].

He didn’t know what Anderson has done to deserve such a harsh judgement, but one thing was sure – he wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.

John bit his lip, his thumb hovering over the “Answer” option.

The truth was – he was becoming truly tempted to reply to those texts. He has succeeded in ignoring the first ones - “[Didn’t know this experiment could result in this] with a pic so gruesome it has nearly turned John off his dinner – but now it just seemed rude not to answer.

Besides, the last texts were… sweet. Curious. Silly stuff which made his lips twitch and his fingers itch to type a reply.

He already had several in mind – or rather he had questions.

_Where did you get these fingers??_

_Should I be afraid you’ve got my number?_

_In which field are you working, exactly?_

 

He wasn’t really afraid – he has seen much more dangerous on the battlefield, after all.

 

No, he was… puzzled. His curiosity was definitely aroused as regards the mysterious SH and he longed to know more about him (because John was quite sure it was a man). What was he like? How old? Where was he living? And especially – was his life really as exciting as it seemed to be? That was maybe the most frustrating aspect of this weird correspondence taking place between SH and him – even though John has refused until now to join in. These brief glimpses into SH’s everyday existence fascinated him as much as they exasperated him.

If only you knew, they seemed to say.

Goading him into replying and doing so, entering the mysterious little game SH was trying to establish between them.

“Fuck off”, John huffed to the silent phone. He stood up, snatched his cane and left for a walk.

 

When he came back several hours later, loaded down with two full plastic bags – in view of his shopping bill, he definitely should think of getting a job – he couldn’t help but defiantly staring at the phone. His behaviour was completely ridiculous, John thought, who in his right mind would be afraid of looking at a bloody piece of plastic to see if he had any message left?

Fighting the temptation to do so, he resolved to put away first the groceries. He was sorting out the tomatoes when the phone chimed.

John groaned.

Don’t do this, he told himself. You’re stronger than this, you can resist him for a while, at least.

New chime.

“Fuck!” he cried out before standing up and snatching the phone left on the table.

 

[Smelly cat just died. I thought he was sleeping but the old beast wasn’t breathing any more. SH]

 

John closed his eyes. What was he supposed to do? With trembling fingers, he opened the second text.

 

[For once in his life, Mycroft was right – caring is not an advantage. SH]

 

He stared at the message – this confession, he thought. Gosh. He couldn’t really leave this unanswered, could he?

 

There’s a line between being cautious and cruel, after all. Besides, which kind of person could say this to someone whose pet has just died? What a load of bullshit.

 

His mind bubbling with half-formed sentences, John didn’t pay a great attention to the option he was choosing on the phone. He only found out his mistake when hearing the first ringtone.

He loudly swore but before he could hang up, the ringtone was replaced with the fucking poshest voice he has ever heard “Oh, hello. I wasn’t actually expecting your call but… What a pleasant surprise!”

 

At least, John thought, he has guessed right – SH was indeed a man.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Muse has taken a shine to this story... and who am I to resist her? Enjoy and thanks again for the support, much appreciated!

“What a pleasant surprise!”

 

John remained frozen. What should he do?

 

_You could start with “Hi”, you know._

“Er… Hi. Nice… to hear from you too”, he said, wondering if it was definitely too late to salvage a bit of his pride by hanging up and forgetting he was babbling on the phone.

 

He felt his cheeks reddening further when SH let out a deep chuckle.

 

“You didn’t intend to call me, did you?”

“No!” John cried out “It wasn’t… I mean…”

Oh bugger it all, he thought. Whoever this SH was, he was able to make the anxiety-ridden teenager John has been come back up to the surface. Time to speak like a former soldier.

 

“I read your last texts and I couldn’t not reply to you.”

John tried to ignore the little voice in his mind whispering that he would have caved in sooner or later to SH’s alluring messages.

 

“I’m… sorry for your loss,” he went on, wondering how the stranger on the other end of the line would react. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t “My loss?” followed by “Oh, you mean the cat!”

 

Suspicion immediately arose in John’s mind and he groaned.

 

“It was all lies, wasn’t it? I bet you don’t even have a pet!”

He has made a right fool of himself.

 

“No, no!” SH protested “I didn’t lie! I swear to you, everything I told you in my texts was true. I just…”

 

He cleared his throat.

“… restructured the truth a little bit. Nothing major, mind you.”

 

Nothing major, he had the gall to say. John shook his head, realised he was smiling.

 

He didn’t try to hide his amusement when he said “Did you really have a cat?”

 

He got the impression the man was definitely sulking when he finally replied after a few seconds of silence. “I didn’t own him _per se_. Technically, he belonged to Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Mrs Hudson?”

“My landlady. She has taken a shine to me, always checking if I eat enough, this kind of thing… (He sighed.) And Mister Whiskers – or rather Smelly Cat, as I used to call him – would come with her whenever she brought me meals and tea…”

 

John suddenly pictured the three of them around a table – the sweet Mrs Hudson with a tray in her hands, a mangy cat meowing around her ankles and finally, a tall, dark – _unknown_ \- shadow. He stifled a groan. Now wasn’t the time for his mind to remind him what he was physically looking for in a partner. Or that he liked his men to be taller than him (which wasn’t really difficult, if he was honest with himself).

 

“Why are you telling me all this? Sending me these texts… You don’t even know my name!”

“So tell me, stranger,” SH retorted, his deep voice making John’s entire being thrill. “What should I call you?”

 

He has walked right into that one.

 

“John. John Watson.”

And thank God it was a common enough name, in case of his nutter revealing himself to be a serial killer, after all.

 

“Nice to hear you, John.”

He swallowed hard. Gosh. He had the feeling that voice would soon appear in some of his fantasies.

“As for sending you texts," his stranger went on, “why shouldn’t I? Or did they bore you?”

Was he deluding himself or did he hear, under the briskness of SH’s voice, a hint of hesitancy?

 

“No. They were… interesting. A bit mad, to be honest, especially when you speak about your experiments.”

 

It drew another laugh of SH and wasn’t it a lovely sound?

 

Gosh, he really was pathetic, mooning over someone when he didn’t even know his name…

 

“Hey, wait…”

He was interrupted by “Would you like to get dinner?”

And as if it wasn’t clear, the man added “With me, I mean.”

 

“What? But you don’t even know…”

 

What I look like, John thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. Was it a date? Or was SH as lonely as he appeared to be, looking for comradeship and nothing else? After all, sharing a meal, even with a stranger, didn’t commit him to anything. God knows he could use a new friend.

 

“I’m sure I would know soon enough everything which matters about you. At least if you accept.”

 

There it was, the same hesitancy John felt earlier reappearing in SH’s voice.

What was it about this man that he wasn’t able to resist?

 

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

John laughed.

“Why, should I wait for an engraved invitation then?”

“No, I’m not very fond of them,” SH replied in a serious voice. “Should we say tomorrow at 7 pm?”

“Okay but I still don’t know…”

“The address is 221b Baker Street and the name is Sherlock Holmes.”

And without giving the opportunity for John to ask for more, he hung up with a “Goodnight, John.”

 

He has no way to be certain, but he could have sworn that Sherlock has said those words with a wink.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be described as pining and... I'd leave you the surprise! :)  
> Thanks again for the support and the comments, you make my day!

The next day found John messing nervously around in his flat. In a valiant attempt at distracting himself – and to avoid thinking of his maybe-date with Sherlock – he cleaned his bedroom from top to bottom before tackling his sorry kitchen/living room combo. He was in the middle of vacuuming the only carpet when he realised what he was doing.

What was he playing at? Trying to transform his drab interior into a cosy nest, in the hope that, should Sherlock follow him home tonight, he would be… what? Not being repelled by a down on his luck, injured former soldier with a streak of black humour? That he wouldn’t turn John down at the earliest opportunity?

John snorted. Right. He should really give up watching _Property Brothers_ , then.

And he especially shouldn’t get his hopes up as regards tonight.

In fact, he should have cancelled the whole thing yesterday.

It was… completely crazy.

Meeting a complete stranger who has texted him by mistake?

_And who seems interested in you?_

He swallowed heavily. Every time he told himself he should text Sherlock “Sorry, I can’t” or some similar bullshit, he thought of the man’s persistency in sending him messages, giving him random glimpses in his life.

Why has he done that?

Was he so lonely that he was trying to hook someone’s interest this way?

For a moment, John pictured him – he could as well indulge in his fantasy of tall, dark, _gorgeous_ Sherlock, he would find out the truth soon enough – waving his arms in the air and screaming at him “Look at me!”

A stranger with a deliciously deep voice, who seems to go to great pains to hide his hesitancy and social unease behind an abrupt and impolite façade.

And wasn’t it intriguing? John thought. To be the one to uncover this mystery, to be able to strip Sherlock of all his shields, to see his true face…

He gritted his teeth when he realised the mere thought of _stripping_ Sherlock was certainly doing wonders for his fickle-since-his-return libido.

He forced himself to calm down before resuming his task.

 

At five pm, the flat was spotless, the clothes for tonight carefully chosen and laid on the bed and John was getting more and more nervous. He has been half-heartedly checking earlier the job ads on the computer when he suddenly thought that maybe Sherlock was to be found on the social networks. His heart has leapt at this idea – maybe he wouldn’t go to a blind date, after all. One hour later, he hasn’t found any pic – and certainly no trace of Sherlock on Facebook. No, what John has discovered was _better_ – Sherlock has a website.

_The Science of Deduction._

John couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

Browsing page after page, he slowly immersed himself in Sherlock’s world.

He has been right – it was fascinating.

Not the content per se. John couldn’t really care about the various types of tobacco and the means to identify the different ashes. What got him completely enthralled was what he was feeling behind Sherlock’s words – the blazing passion when he was writing about his work, the sheer determination he seemed to dedicate to everything catching his fancy…

Long, warm shivers racked John’s frame when he dared to imagine himself being the focus of this attention.

It was nerve-wracking.

Mind-blowing.

Arousing as hell.

His phone suddenly let out a few thrills, bringing John back to reality. He has set the alarm on six pm to give himself the necessary time to get ready.

He switched off the computer and rushed to the bathroom, ignoring the way his heart was jumping into triple time.

 

 

When the cab dropped him off in front of the 221, John was a mess. The driver’s large smile told him that in his haste to get out of the car, he has paid him far too much. John gripped the handle of his walking stick. He would care about this later. Right now it was time to face the music – and discover what was hidden behind the 221’s door. He was taking a step forward when he heard behind him “Hello, John.”

_This_ voice.

Surprise rendered him motionless during a few seconds before John found the strength to turn round.

The first thing he saw was the harpoon, which was even taller than the man holding it.

A man covered from head to foot in blood.

John used to pride himself on his nerves of steel, but there were limits, even for a former soldier. Therefore he stammered “What the fuck?” before taking a few paces back.

The stranger’s grin - a grin as bloody as the rest of him, John hysterically noticed – disappeared, and he wrinkled his nose.

“You’re really rude, you know.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Or his eyes, for that matter.

“I’m rude? Have you seen yourself? You look like the bloody Ripper!”

And you smell like him too, he thought, biting his tongue not to say it aloud.

The man frowned, as if he hadn’t been truly aware of his appearance until now.

“Oh you mean this?” he asked, pointing out the harpoon. “Don’t mind it, it’s an experiment.”

And as if it was a perfectly reasonable explanation, he walked to the 221’s door and opened it, leaving John standing on the pavement, googly-eyed and thunderstruck.

He watched the man who was certainly Sherlock, as he hasn’t bothered to introduce himself – and John was considered the rude one! – disappearing inside the house.

A few seconds later, he was back on the doorstep, throwing an exasperated glance at John.

“What are you waiting for? Come in!”

Well, John thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John makes a choice while UST is slowly developing...  
> I'm having a lot of fun with this story, hope you'll enjoy! :)

John leant heavily on his cane, slowly climbing the stairs up to 221b. Sherlock has gone upstairs ahead of him, only crying out “Going to take a shower, make yourself at home!” before vanishing in the bathroom.

He guessed – no, scratch that, he _knew_ – that, in his situation, any other guy – or woman for that matter – would have reacted differently. They wouldn’t have followed Sherlock, they wouldn’t even have set foot inside the building. They would have recoiled in front of this madman covered in blood, hiding their feelings with more or less discretion before fleeing, blocking his number afterwards on their phone and forgetting this whole disaster of a date.

They might even laugh about it with their friends or colleagues.

What a funny story to tell them on Monday morning while waiting for their mug to be refilled at the coffee machine. And who could have blamed them?

Fortunately – or unfortunately, it remained to be seen – John wasn’t most people.

His obstinate streak – the same one which used to drive Harry mad when they were still living under the parents’ roof – pushed him more and more into Sherlock’s world, like a moon revolving around a planet, getting caught in his gravitational field.

Reaching the threshold of the flat, in which he could hear the sound of running water and some choice words as well – it seemed that it wasn’t so easy to get rid of the blood – John frowned, thinking of this metaphor.

He hasn’t left the army behind him only to become dependent on another human being, interesting and special as it seemed to be.

His time – and his injury – in Afghanistan has taught him at least one thing – it was better to be his own man. To rely on himself. To be able to say “No” to absurd orders, which could potentially endanger others and…

He closed his eyes.

He hasn’t come all this way to wallow in self-pity and bringing barely buried memories back to life, has he?

“Get a grip, Watson”, he muttered before nudging the door open and entering the flat.

 

At first glance, John thought that a war has been waged inside against an invisible enemy. It was completely messy – the floor littered with crumpled papers and wrinkled clothes, dust laying thick on empty shelves and window sills, windows grimy with fingerprints and London’s pollution.

He only glanced at the kitchen before beating a hasty retreat.

Gosh. What could smell so bad, he wondered.

If Sherlock really had a landlady living in the flat below, John could well imagine her cries of horror and complaints. Not that they were useful at any rate – considering the flat’s state, they seemed to fall on Sherlock’s deaf ears.

And yet John found he liked what he saw.

With a more careful maintenance, he mused, this flat might turn out to be really fine. Appropriately located, with enough space for a grown man to…

“You’re still here.”

It wasn’t worded as a question, but John heard it all the same.

He turned round just in time to catch a glimpse of a flat, white belly disappearing under a T-shirt - “Don’t keep calm, just go crazy!”

A motto which fitted Sherlock like a glove, as far as John knew.

And speaking of Sherlock… When he has first met him, he hasn’t really paid attention to his appearance. He has noticed the man was taller than him - which wasn’t that unusual, with his own 5’7 feet – but at that time, he has been more spooked by the blood covering him.

But now…

A voice cackled in his mind.

_You asked for tall, dark and handsome, didn’t you?_

The combination of pale eyes, narrowed at this moment in a piercing and calculating gaze, dark hair cut very short, which emphasizes even more Sherlock’s angular face, full lips pursed in a defensive frown shouldn’t really work, but somehow it did.

It was even working astonishingly well, pressing all John’s buttons until they become flashing green lights, displaying the same message over and over again “GEORGEOUS HOTTIE COMING YOUR WAY”.

John fought the temptation to lick his lips and let his appreciation show on his face. Besides, Sherlock’s current expression didn’t lead him to believe that flirting would be welcome right now.

He replied instead “I’m still here, yes.”

Catching himself eyeing the lanky frame clad with a T-shirt and jeans, he hastened to add “And I guess you weren’t injured during your experiment earlier?”

Sherlock snorted, relaxing his stance a little bit. He slumped back against the wall behind him, bending a slim leg until he could cross his ankles.

“As if I would. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Doctor Watson, but rest assured I can perfectly take care of myself.”

That bold statement was immediately contradicted when he nervously ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, unless you count the explosion last week. It _really_ was an incident by the way, unlike what Mrs Hudson assumed. But she didn’t believe me and she even obliged me to go to the hairdresser…”

“Wait a minute,” John interrupted him. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The self-consciousness he was exhibiting vanished in the blink of an eye, a mien of haughty annoyance taking its place.

“Child’s work, really. I can tell you right now how I deduced this and many other things about you…”

He straightened up, slowly walking to John until they were nearly touching. John swallowed with an audible gulp, getting himself lost in the pale gaze focused on him. Sherlock’s behaviour seemed to promise casual intimacy, bordering on seduction, but it was belied by the inquisitive look in his eyes.

Was it a test? A social experiment with John as guinea-pig?

All these questions ran through his mind while his body was taking a healthy interest in the proximity of a fit, _gorgeous_ male in front of him.

He reflexively clenched his fists.

They stood there, simply looking at each other, their breaths slowly mingling until Sherlock’s hushed voice broke the silence.

“Or I can tell you all this while we are dining at Angelo’s. What do you choose?”

John didn’t waste any time.

“I’m hungry. And you _did_ promise me dinner, if I correctly remember.”

A slow smile creased Sherlock’s lips.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UST? Which UST? I don't know what you're talking about...
> 
> On a more serious note, I'll be away for a few days, so no update until next week. But don't worry, I promise I'll come back to this story as soon as possible :)

Angelo’s was your typical Italian restaurant – red and white gingham curtains on windows, a lit candle on each table and soft, romantic music broadcasted by the speakers well hidden among the artificial plants. Even the owner, a middle-aged, dark-haired man who greeted them both with a bright smile, a white apron tied around his rotund stomach, seemed to be taken straight from _Lady and the Tramp_.

A delicious shiver ran down John’s spine when he remembered the classic scene of the spaghetti kiss – the two lovers accidentally nibbling their way into their first kiss.

God. Was he really fantasizing over a Disney comedy?

He was beyond hope, he thought, seating down at a cosy table for two.

But he had to acknowledge it was becoming more and more difficult to keep a clear head around Sherlock.

Sherlock who was regaling him with his investigation stories, declaring himself “the only consulting detective – I invented the job, really”, who was talking a mile a minute when deducing John’s life – “A sister! There’s always something…” – and who looked taken aback when the only answer he got was a soft “Amazing” – “You really think so?”

At this point, John realised he was well and truly on his way to being smitten with his unexpected date.

Even worse – he didn’t give a damn about it.

He muffled the little voice in his mind, which sounded a lot like Harry’s, trying to turn him into a doubting Thomas about everything Sherlock has told him and he simply let himself falling under the spell of this night.

Sherlock must have glimpsed this surrender in his eyes, because his smile got wider, making him look younger, more innocent.

“What would you like?” he asked John, considering the menu.

_You, naked, on the nearest bed I can find._

Yeah, getting his mind out of the gutter was also becoming increasingly difficult.

He wondered if it was Sherlock’s way of flirting.

If it is, it’s working, he thought.

He uttered a vague “Hum” while trying to understand what the _scampi fra diavolo_ , the _saltimbocca alla romana_ or the _risotto ai funghi porcini_ could entail.

“I’m really not sure…” he finally answered.

“Because there are too many temptations for your stomach or because you don’t understand Italian?” Sherlock asked, trying to hide his amusement in his glass of wine.

John grinned.

“Am I to assume you fluently speak Italian among your many other talents?”

Sherlock shrugged, a nonchalant attitude which was immediately contradicted by the rosy hint on his cheekbones.

“Not really, but I get by. Once you know French, it’s easy to…”

“You can speak French?” John interrupted him.

Sherlock’s gaze darkened. He licked his lips.

“Yeah. Would you like a demonstration?”

And without waiting for John’s answer, he said “La question est : me fais-tu confiance, John?”

He hasn’t understood a word except for his name, but… Gosh. Hearing the sibilant sounds rolling on Sherlock’s tongue, he suddenly felt like he was lying naked on his front, receiving the massage of his life. A situation which left him embarrassingly aroused. John cleared his throat several times, trying not to imagine Sherlock whispering unknown words in his ear while lovingly stroking him all over.

“It… It sounded like a question”, he finally said in a strained voice.

Sherlock was grinning like the great prat he was, enjoying without a doubt his discomfiture. John decided that he was going to retaliate as soon as possible. After all, all was fair in love and war.

_Just you wait, Sherlock Holmes._

“It was,” Sherlock replied. “I was asking if you trust me.”

“I have trusted you so far,” John immediately retorted. “Why should I do otherwise now?”

He has intended it as a playful question, something they could both use to carry on flirting and getting into each other’s pants. But Sherlock didn’t look like he has got the memo. Instead, he was considering John with a serious look.

Shit, John thought.

But before he could think of something to say, Sherlock dropped his gaze, staring absentmindedly at his paper serviette he was currently tearing into shreds.

“I don’t… I’m not used to…”

He took a deep breath before whispering “I don’t normally do this.”

“You mean… dates?”

He was rewarded with Sherlock’s quick smile, before he answered

“I mean texting people. Well, technically, it’s not true, I text Lestrade and Molly, but that’s not the same and…”

He raised his head, the wonder in his pale eyes drawing John like a moth to the flame.

“I don’t know why it’s different with you. I couldn’t stop telling you… things. Every time I was sending you a message, I was waiting for your answer.”

“Even if you considered me as rude and impolite?” John couldn’t help but teasing him.

“Even so. I knew I wouldn’t get an apology.”

“Too right. Instead you will have a confession.”

John ignored the sudden ache in his chest or the voice in his mind screaming at him to be cautious. To hell with it. He found himself wanting to answer Sherlock with the same honesty he has just displayed.

And the cautious hope blooming in his date’s eyes was encouraging him to do so.

“I don’t normally reply to texts from strangers. I don’t know why I made an exception for you. But I’m glad I did.”

_Time to take a risk, Watson. And to leap into the unknown._

He stretched his left hand until it brushed against Sherlock’s.

“I’m glad to be here, with you.”

Sherlock remained motionless for a few seconds, during which John quietly and definitely agonized over what he has done. Suddenly he reached out, wrapping his fingers gently around John’s wrist, stroking his skin.

“I’m glad, too.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I would finish this, didn't I? :) But fear not, I still got some adventures in store for our boys before ending this story. In the meantime, enjoy!

“Anything I can get you, gentlemen?”

“Thank you, Angelo, that’ll be all,” Sherlock said before whispering, as if he was telling a great secret, “It was delicious.”

The owner beamed with pride before heartily slapping Sherlock on the back, making him stumble in his seat. John tried to hide his smile behind his hand – to no avail, it seemed, considering how his date was currently glowering at him.

“My pleasure, _caro mio_! I’m so happy for you, really” Angelo went on speaking, not noticing Sherlock swiftly raising his head and staring wide-eyed at him. “I still remembered when…”

“Would you look at the time!” Sherlock cried out before Angela could embarrass him further. “John, we’re going to be late for the…”

“The new Bond movie, you mean?” John went on, playing along with this ruse. “That’s right.”

“Don’t let an old thing like me hold you back, you lovebirds!” Angelo gushed loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, ignoring once again Sherlock’s mortified face. “The night is young!”

 

John was strong enough to keep silent when they finally succeeded in getting out of Angelo’s friendly clutches. Doing his best to ignore the laugh bubbling up inside him, he tried to keep a straight face. You can do this, Watson, he thought, not betraying how endearingly amusing he found Sherlock with his red cheeks and…

“Out with it,” Sherlock growled at him.

John’s self-control definitely lost.

He let out a great guffaw, which was readily followed by others. Several passers-by turned round to stare at him, but for once John didn’t really care. His amusement was intensified when he caught Sherlock repressing a smile, concealing his face in the collar of his coat.

“Oh no, you don’t get to hide, Mister…”

He instinctively reacted, grasping the stiff material in his fingers and yanking it towards him. He only wanted to make Sherlock look at him, but he hasn’t counted on his own strength or on his date’s lapse of concentration. John found himself standing on tiptoe, nearly nose to nose with Sherlock, his laughter dying in his throat.

Sherlock first stared at him, surprised and a bit astonished. But John saw his expression change, mirroring the one John knew was written all over his face.

Interest.

Arousal.

And a great deal of affection.

They remained motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes, a silent exchange taking place between them.

_Can I…?_

_…trust you?_

_Can this thing we now have work?_

_Are you ready to…_

_…fall in love with me?_

Sherlock's gaze flicked all over him. John wondered what he was seeing. Deducing.

Doubt briefly flared in his mind – what if Sherlock didn’t like what he saw? What if John definitely lost his ability to trust others at the same time he was shot in Afghanistan?

What…?

And then Sherlock smiled. It was quite shy, but nonetheless radiant. A smile which seems to promise everything John thought he would never find again when he has come back in London – loyalty, friendship and a strong hint of this intimacy he could read in the darkened eyes of his companion.

He licked his lips.

He wanted to kiss that smile.

Find out how this white skin tasted.

He wanted them to go back to his flat, to close the door and…

John hadn’t realized he has started to tilt his head, moving closer to his date, their breaths mingling together, until someone hollered at them “Just kiss him already!” followed by a few drunken catcalls.

Whatever the interloper and his friends wanted to achieve, it has the opposite effect – Sherlock startled, his cheeks reddening in a way John would have found completely endearing in other circumstances. For the moment he softly released Sherlock’s coat before taking a step back and glaring uselessly at the drunken group, which was already going away.

Gosh. What was he trying to do, exactly?

Apart from throwing himself at the first person he found interesting?

He groaned – his days as John “Three Continents” Watson were truly over.

He wasn’t that young, dashing soldier anymore.

And he couldn’t hope to seduce anyone by acting so rashly.

He tensed at the thought worming his way into his mind – what if he has just blown every chance he might have had with Sherlock?

He nervously glanced at him.

Whatever he has hoped – or dreaded – to find on his date’s face it wasn’t this amused, affectionate look solely directed at him.

“Angelo was right at least on one count,” he whispered.

“Which one?”

“The night is young and…”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate before exhaling loudly, as if he was taking a great risk, and holding out his hand to John.

“Care to dance?”

And John, who was quite rubbish at learning the easiest steps – until it was for a dirty slow, of course – didn’t waste any time replying “Yes” before reaching out and tangling his fingers with Sherlock’s own.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly over...  
> (Well, you didn't think I would forget the smutty part, did you? ;)

Ten minutes after having walked in the club, John had to face the facts.

His date was a bloody fucking  _tease_.

 

 

_I'm in love with the shape of you_ _  
We push and pull like a magnet do_

 

And if he correctly judged the looks Sherlock was currently garnering with his way of dancing, he wasn’t the only one to think so. John gnashed his teeth, resisting the temptation to snarl at anyone coming closer to his date.

He was so preoccupied with the need to drive away any interloper he actually jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What…”

“John.”

God. The way he said his name…

Sherlock drew him closer before tilting his head, lips brushing John’s ear and making him shiver.

“Dance with me, John.”

“And what do you think I’m doing, exactly?”

“Focusing your lovely attention on anyone who isn’t me,” Sherlock retorted with an amused glance. “That’s what you’re doing. And it’s completely unacceptable.”

John looked up at his date contritely.

“Sorry. It’s just that…”

The explanation died in his throat when he felt Sherlock’s hands low on his hips.

“Dance. With. Me,” he repeated.

And how could John resist this posh voice?

He closed his eyes, letting the music – a remixed version of _The Shape Of You_ \- flow over him.

_Say, boy, let's not talk too much  
Grab on my waist and put that body on me_

And they were certainly doing that, John absentmindedly mused. He forgot the club, the stale smells floating around, the foreign bodies brushing against his in the throes of dancing. He forgot everything which wasn’t Sherlock.  

Sherlock draping himself over him with a proprietary air, his nimble fingers exploring the valleys and ridges of his body, finding the space where John’s shirt has ridden up. His fingertips grazed the bare, sweaty skin of John’s back.

Before stopping altogether.

Puzzled and a little distraught – he has started to enjoy _thoroughly_ Sherlock’s exploration – John glanced at him.

Sherlock was looking at him, lips parted, pupils dilated. John smothered a groan at that sight.

What was he waiting for… Oh!

He has caught the uncertainty looming in his date’s gaze.

Sherlock was asking for permission.

And John was certainly eager to give it.

 

  
_Come on now, follow my lead_  
 _Come, come on now, follow my lead_

 

Let’s do that, he thought, before canting his hips up and letting his date know how _willing_ he was.

The effect was immediate.

A moan escaped Sherlock’s lips, barely audible in the club’s noisy atmosphere.

At the same time, he reached down and cupped John’s arse in his hands.

Not expecting such enthusiasm, John let out a small yelp of surprise.

Sherlock immediately released him, hands raised, before stepping back.

“Sorry, I…”

“Come back here,” John growled, furious with himself.

He grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt, drawing him closer until there was no space left between them. He stood on his toes, whispering in his date’s ear “Now _that’s_ completely unacceptable. Put your hands on me and don’t let go, understood?”

He saw Sherlock’s pink lips moving, feeling rather than hearing his low “Oh yes”.

Sherlock’s hands wandered again all over his body – his tight arse, the strong lines of his back, the nape of his neck. John gave as good as he got, caressing, touching, squeezing.

They weren’t dancing anymore, lost in their own little world among the anonymous crowd, the throbbing lights sporadically illuminating their faces.

 

John felt consumed with want. The need to touch Sherlock and to be touched by him. He wanted _so much_ with this man. Maybe he should have been frightened by the intensity of his desire towards someone he has barely met, but he couldn’t backpedal.

He wouldn’t.

Here, in Sherlock’s arms, being slowly and thoroughly seduced by this man, he felt safe.

Cherished. Treasured.

“John…”

Hearing Sherlock’s completely wrecked voice, John looked up.

He realised what was going to happen in a split second.

Sherlock kissed him. Mouth warm and pliant against his, lips tasting, a hint of a tongue before letting him go.

“Are you ready to come home with me, John Watson?”

As sole answer, John kissed him again.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly 2,000 words of smut. *cough* Guess I was feeling inspired... *cough again*  
> Anyway, nearly the end - and I thank you once again for your support & comments, it's lovely to hear from you!

_“_

 

_Are you ready to come home with me, John Watson?”_

As if he could say “no” – a word which didn’t seem to be included in his vocabulary as far as Sherlock was concerned.

After the sweaty, electric atmosphere of the club, finding himself in the back seat of a London cab was putting quite a downer on John’s excitement.

Until Sherlock moved closer to him. He was leaving a small distance between them – no doubt he didn’t wish to incur any comment from their driver. But it didn’t deter him from enjoying the darkness inside the vehicle to do something else – like reaching out and lightly stroking John’s back.

He breathed in sharply when he felt this featherlike touch.

He slightly turned his head on the right.

And shivered when he found himself the focus of Sherlock’s attention.

Bright clear eyes, a feverish glint in their gaze, unabashedly staring at him like he was something strange and wonderful at the same time.

It was completely intoxicating. John groaned with arousal. It was difficult to see in the half-light of the cab, but it seemed to him that Sherlock’s pupils were dilating further.

He laid his hands flat on John’s back – the same proprietary, sensual touch that John has already experienced in the club.

He could get used to this very quickly, he realised.

And then he stopped to think when Sherlock, inch by inch, pulled on his T-shirt until he found the bare skin of his back.

A slight graze of fingernails, which made him shiver.

An assertive touch, tracing invisible letters on his skin, inflaming every one of John’s nerves.

Making his cock pulse with arousal in his jeans.

And then these nimble digits caressed him lower, lower until they reached the small of his back.

Slipping in the crack of his arse, teasing him with their bold stroke.

John bit his lower lip, trying to suppress any sound which might give them away.

It was quickly becoming a real challenge, especially when his diabolical tease of a date was growing bolder in his exploration, lightly squeezing the top of his buttocks before stroking John’s ribs, the sensitive flesh of his belly.

“You’re killing me.”

The soft whisper, contrasting with the unrestrained desire he could hear in Sherlock’s voice, elicited a whine from John’s mouth.

Gosh. He was completely gone on this man. Sherlock could have undressed him, layer after layer, in this cab and he wouldn’t have uttered a word of protest.

He imagined himself flat on his back on the cracked leather, Sherlock’s mouth on his, his hands stroking him everywhere.

Offered. Ready to be taken.

He wanted this like he has never wanted anything else before.

Accepting this extraordinary man’s touch, his claim on him.

For a disturbing second the disgusting words his father used to hurl at him – with an increasing frequency after Harry has come out – resurfaced.

_“No son of mine will be a dirty cocksucker, you hear me?”_

But now, they didn’t have the power to hurt him anymore. To make him feel guilty.

Go to hell, Dad, John thought.

“John?”

Sherlock must have felt his unease. How could he be already so attuned to his moods? He felt a wave of deep affection – _say the word, John, it’s love!_ – for this man, who in the blink of an eye, has turned his touch from alluring to reassuring.

He forgot the very notion of caution when he turned his head in Sherlock’s direction, pulling him closer by his shirt. John tilted his head, tracing a soft kiss across Sherlock’s mouth and enjoying the opportunity to leave him speechless.

“Make me yours, Sherlock.”

 

He has barely set foot in the flat he has seen for the first time a little earlier that Sherlock embraced him from behind, pulling him against his chest and planting a series of hard, little kisses on any part of John’s face he could reach – his cheek, his brow, his jaw, the corner of his lips.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he teasingly whispered.

For sole answer, John moved his hips in a slow, sensuous roll. He let out a loud groan when he felt the hard, rigid line of Sherlock’s cock, still imprisoned in his impeccably ironed trousers, against the small of his back.

“In your bed, I hope.”

“Don’t know if we’ll make it,” Sherlock panted in his ear.

John’s protest died in his throat when he felt Sherlock’s hand under his chin, tilting his face up. He took his mouth in an open-mouthed, toe-curling kiss. Tongues stroking each other, in a filthy, feverish dance of passion and lust.

At the same time, Sherlock’s free hand resumed his exploration of John’s chest, which has barely started in the cab. This time, there wasn’t any need of caution or restraint. He was boldly touching John, pinching his nipples, caressing his sides, before dropping on his waistband.

Feeling a hand so close to his hard, weeping cock, John couldn’t help whimpering.

Sherlock broke the kiss, opting for licking and teasing the soft skin of John’s neck with little nips of his teeth.

“I could bend you right now on the first surface available and you would let me take you, wouldn’t you John?”

The no-holds-barred sensuality in his voice was a lethal weapon, John thought. Even more so when, with his right hand, Sherlock made short work of his jeans’ buttons.

Robbed of the ability to speak, John gasped with pleasure, arching up into his lover’s touch.

“Or you could lie down on my bed, flat on your front, and I would rim you until you beg me for your release…”

The blunt words made his head spin.

“What would you prefer? Tell me.”

As if he could answer!

John let out a broken “Please”, bucking up his hips, desperate for Sherlock’s touch.

“John, you make me…” Sherlock groaned into his skin.

His right hand slipped beneath the waistband of John’s pants. At the first touch of Sherlock on his cock, John cried out. Pleasure was engulfing him in a fiery embrace, dissolving any fear, any doubt which has burdened him since his return in London. Blood was roaring in his ears, a harsh symphony with Sherlock groaning his name as counterpoint.

He gasped again when he felt blunt digits on his arse, slipping between his buttocks until they have found their target.

“God!”

“John, please… Let me…”

“Anything, Sherlock, please…”

He couldn’t decide, torn between the delicious hand on his cock, stroking the underside vein, teasing his balls and the increasing pressure on his anus.

“Lu… Lube…”

“I have something way better than this.”

And without missing a beat, Sherlock dropped on his knees.

 

John was so far gone he didn’t understand what was going on until he heard his lover tell him in a rough voice “You have five seconds to find yourself something to hold onto, John. And whatever you do, don’t let it go.”

He blindly obeyed, his mind addled by such a surge of lust he has never known before. Luckily for him, he only had to take a few steps forward to find the nearest wall. He leant against it, laying his head on his forearm while his right hand found his cock.

“Good choice, John” Sherlock chuckled before removing John’s jeans and pants until they were around his ankles.

The feeling of being finally naked, his intimacy exposed to Sherlock’s gaze… It should have been frightening. John has never been totally at ease with his former lovers, preferring to take the lead and taking them apart in an attempt to preserve himself. And he has always succeeded in doing so. Why was it so different with Sherlock?

“You’re beautiful,” his lover whispered, slight puffs of warm breath against his skin.

John didn’t even try to repress the long shiver running through him. He had nothing more to hide after all. He has totally surrendered himself to Sherlock’s touch.

And it was liberating.

Please don’t let me go, he thought. Don’t let me fall in love with you if you cannot catch me.

As if he has read his thoughts, Sherlock said “Another time I will tease you until you cannot take it anymore. Another night I will make love to you, mark yourself as mine. But now… I cannot wait anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t waste time, cupping John’s arse in his hands, squeezing his flesh, kissing and licking with a fervour which fuelled even more John’s arousal.

“You…mad…bastard!” he cried out, jacking off in time with Sherlock’s caresses.

“But I’m _your_ mad bastard,” his lover answered.

He pulled John towards him, exposing him until he could see John’s hole.

He directly used his tongue in an assault which left John completely breathless.

“Oh…Oh!”

It wouldn’t take him long before his orgasm hit. He could already feel his balls tighten, the pre come oozing from his cock’s plum head. He was stroking it like a man possessed. And Sherlock was in the same state, judging from the way he kissed and licked, tongue jabbing its target in glorious strokes, hands possessively caressing any part of John’s body he could access.

The meaty, filthy sounds echoed in the room, punctuated by John’s whimpers.

“Sher… I can’t…”

His lover chose this moment to put his forefinger into his hole alongside with his tongue.

And John was done for.

He screamed while warm gushes of semen were spurting from his cock, spattering the wall.

Lost in the powerful orgasm roaring through his whole body, he barely heard Sherlock groaning his release.

 

It took John long seconds to snap back to reality. He was panting, endorphin running in his veins. Unable to stand any longer, he let himself drop to the floor, next to Sherlock, who was lying on his back, his arms outstretched.

A comfortable silence was stretching between them until John collected his thoughts and asked “Did I hear you…?”

“Yep,” Sherlock confirmed. “Didn’t need a hand. It hasn’t happened since university.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

Testing the waters, John lightly stroked with a finger the back of Sherlock’s hand.

He didn’t expect his lover to give a happy sigh before crawling towards him.

John found himself with a heavy, red-faced and very satisfied consulting detective in his lap.

He wouldn’t have let him go for all the gold in the world.

He was nuzzling Sherlock’s graceful neck, promising himself that next time, he would mark this pale skin with a glorious love bite, when he heard “John?”

Sherlock’s voice has lost the authority it has demonstrated during their love making. It sounded frail and a bit shy. Instinctively John held him closer.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“Will you…”

Sherlock falters before resuming “Will you stay?”

John heard what he didn’t dare to say.

_Will you stay tonight? Will you stay in my life?_

His hand curved on Sherlock’s arm, turning him around with unusual care, until he could catch the gaze of his lover – this brilliant, handsome man, who has turned his world upside down and made him see stars.

Then he took Sherlock’s large hand, raising it up to his lips, kissing the knuckles one by one.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue – Six months later

John was strolling along the aisles of the grocery store, looking for Sherlock’s favourite tea – his lover has expensive tastes although he wouldn’t admit it under pain of death – when he heard his phone chiming.

“Of course,” he muttered when opening the phone.

 

[When will you be back? SH]

 

[Give me ten minutes, okay? I’m trying to find your bloody tea.]

 

It should do the trick.

 

Or not, as John found out thirty seconds later.

 

[Sod the tea. Come back to bed. SH]

 

John swallowed, glancing around him like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. The effect Sherlock has on him, even after six months of relationship, was completely ridiculous.

And John couldn’t be happier.

 

[Oh, I see. Our morning “cuddle” wasn’t enough for you, then.]

 

He was expecting Sherlock to answer him something flirty or downright filthy – when motivated, Sherlock could use every weapon in his arsenal of seduction.

What he got made him stop in his tracks.

 

[With you, it’s never “enough”. SH]

 

[And I wouldn’t have it any other way. SH]

 

John knew he was grinning like an absolute fool, but he couldn’t stop himself. A minute later, he dropped his shopping basket, apologising with a smile to the cashier before rushing outside.

 

Sod the tea, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's OVER! *throw confetti*.  
> Once again, THANK you lovely readers, you truly make my day!  
> And now to plan the next story... Another romcom mineseries or a kind of superhero romance?  
> Which one would you like? I'm all ears!


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